Lisa Brown
I.
Memories of men live in the ends of the hair
lather, rinse, repeat
don’t miss any spots, not even while the water level crawls higher up your feet to your calves
These pipes are old
landlord is explaining
crouching
they’ve got years of other peoples’ stuff accumulated in them
clinging to their metal insides
your hippie recipes just won’t do
to break that stuff up
Down goes the toxic green goo
Vinegar and baking soda were so much more spectacular
The next time I shower
my feet are steeping in
toxins
dead skin
and
other people’s exes
II.
Sitz Bones
Sitz Bones
Thats what my modern dance professor calls them
This futon really hurts my Sitz bones, Tom
How does one dream on such a thing
III.
Rectangular and spare
Playing archivist for this room
keeping books
on who’s come and gone
IV.
Turning the knob
I am nervous
White, fluffy neatness inside
like getting caught in mother’s underwear drawer
V.
The cayenne has spilt all over the floor
Blend it in
to the tiles’ wild pattern
Red feet tomorrow
VI.
Someone has come in
Jars on the mantle jingle with every step
alarming in my half-sleep
and challenging me to hold my breath
not visible
obstructed by the couch
floral camouflage
I watch the tops of trees sway beside stiff fire escapes
and grit teeth
to the sound of murderous barking
from tiny wiener dogs below my heavy limbs
The streetlamp, omniscient
witnesses cigarettes and quarrels and interactions of the romantic sort
knows of time spent in bed
for unreasonable hours
I’m almost sure that if it could type
it would send my mother a concerned email
Dear Christine,
Please speak to your daughter about what happened on the porch last Wednesday. Also, about all of the empty drinking glasses.
Sincerely,
Streetlamp
But instead it just buzzes
Flickering intermittently
over me in my place
Impractical Cartography 